


Here's to Aesthetics

by mittenmaeda



Category: Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Alcohol Misuse, Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Hinata Hajime & Kamukura Izuru Are Merged, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Model AU, Poor use of limousines
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-02 06:02:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14538243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mittenmaeda/pseuds/mittenmaeda
Summary: Hinata is an ex-model trying to get away from fashion and Komaeda is here to ruin all his plans."You never gave me your autograph," said Komaeda.Hinata shrugged. "You can have it now, if you want."





	1. Dress Like You're About to See Your Worst Enemy

It was a Monday, and of all the poor Mondays Hinata had experienced, this particular one was set to be the worst. He was stood outside the studio building in the pouring rain, bike leant against the wall, staring at the buzzer with steadily mounting despair. There was a note plastered onto the high-tech calling system: “Bell broken. Come inside.”

Anyone who needed anything from the various studios would have to climb the stairs and do it in person. Hinata wouldn’t have minded if it was any other location in the city, but of all the places to be sent to and all the places to have a broken doorbell, it almost felt like luck was having a sadistic joke at his expense. He’d have to go in - which meant a face-to-face with Junko was inevitable.

Hinata reflected bitterly on how he’d ended up in such an miserable scenario.

Cycling around as a delivery boy wasn’t exactly a glamorous job, but it gave regular wages and time to figure out what he actually wanted to do with himself. It wasn’t even about the money, really. Chiaki’s eSports wins were enough to pay the rent for them and half the others who unofficially crashed there, but it felt wrong to sit around loafing about his lack of talent. Well- lack of talent in all areas other than his ex-career-that-wouldn’t be named. He even had money left over from that too: Hinata would dip into those accounts if he had to, but seeing the letters arrive with his other name sent such a cold feeling down his body that he was glad to ignore them. Besides - it felt like dirty money.

Chiaki had even suggested he go back to his old job once, because god knew it was highly paid, but he’d felt so shaken at the idea that he’d gone to take a bath and sat there til the water was cold. That’d been an embarrassing day-- Chiaki had definitely seen him nude, and of all the people to see that he’d definitely pick her, but it was still awful.

Hinata considered himself lucky to have a friend so nonplussed by things like that. Once he started to sink into that deep dark moping hole, it was infectious-- he made everyone else just as depressed. Chiaki never judged him for that. She’d supported him as he got his interview and threw a little party for him with _Super Fighter 3_ and snacks when he got the gig, even though it was minimum wage.

But it was alright. Delivery boy wasn’t a bad job. He’d been getting along as fine as he could manage for all of two weeks when he saw _that_ address on the bags.

Feeling his heart hammer in the warehouse, he’d done everything he could to try and get out of it. He told a lie- a _half lie_ , anyway- about his crazy ex working at the address, but the others heading out on shift just shrugged and said they couldn’t just do his work for him. Hinata, by this point, was already on the verge of a full-blown panic. Being fired wasn’t an option - not after Chiaki and Souda and Ibuki had been so proud of him for trying to move on - and nobody else was willing to take it, so he swallowed, put his eyes to the ground and set out for the studios in the stiflingly glamorous heart of Jabberwock city. It couldn’t be that bad. She couldn’t do anything to him if he handed it over and sprinted down the corridor like a wild animal.

Hinata could be stoic when he had to, but as he pedalled all the way there, he felt his throat tightening uncomfortably. He’d not even brought a raincoat, and he felt his hoodie getting uncomfortably cold and wet.

It was as if god and the door of the place were conspiring to draw him in. “Bell broken!” the metal buzzer system mocked, via a post-it note scrawled and stuck to the wall. “Come in.”

Pulling himself back to the present, Hinata glanced around the exterior of the building. It was just as high-end as he remembered. The cars parked in sight were all expensive, but most of the people who’d come here would be driven by someone else. He’d got always got in the hyge pink limo with Junko, her fawning over his hair and his eyes, giggling over what magazines he’d be featured in and what brand suits she’d put him in and how much fun they’d have when they- _no_ , that was enough of that line of thought.

He wished somebody would come and help him, but after a minute of praying someone would walk past and offer to take the bags up for him, he realised how much of an idiot he probably looked stood outside in the rain.

Leaving his bike, he took a deep breath. _Come on, Hinata, pull yourself together._

With a sick feeling in his stomach, he began to climb the stairs. His feet took him to the right floor automatically. It was like some sick part of him thought this was better than being bored.

“ENOSHIMA STUDIOS”, gleamed the fresh lettering on the frosted glass doors.

Oh, god. He could already hear the sound of a photography studio in swing- maybe he could dump the bags and flee?

He pushed open the door, and his vision filled with light.

What he immediately saw wasn’t as bad as seeing her, but was still significantly awful. In one far corner of the room on the border of the set, a red-haired camera-girl sat alone, readying her equipment. In another, several makeup artists were milling around, followed by light technicians. In the forefront, a person with long, thin limbs and a mop of unmistakable bright white hair sat on the floor, sipping a glass of coke through a straw.

Oh, god- _fuck no_ , absolutely _not._ Of all the people Hinata didn’t want to stumble on, Nagito Komaeda was the last one he needed to see right now. Especially when he- _or the person he used to be_ \- was something of a favourite.

He jerked his head down immediately, keeping his features hidden the best he could under his hair.

Why was he there? Maybe he’d loved models so much he’d got a job as a photographer? No- there wasn’t any equipment, he was barefoot in shorts and a T-shirt.

At the sound of the door, Komaeda turned around.  “Did you need something?” He called. Komaeda’s voice had a mesmerizing quality; a slightly out-of-breath soft-spokenness that sent an uncomfortable prickle through him.

“This is for the studio,” he said, as lowly and unrecognizably as he could. He held out the bags.

“Ah, of course.” Komaeda stood up slowly and made his way towards him. Hinata, for the hundredth time that hour, wanted to run away screaming. Komaeda took them, and after looking through them, said- “Did you need a signature?”

Hinata had somehow, in his complete mess of a thought process, forgot. If he could face the floor any harder he’d have been sniffing the linoleum. With the excuse of squinting into his phone-- oh god, did squinting and screwing up your face make you less recognizable, or was he just making things worse?- he tried to work out what he needed.

Oh, god. It specified a signature, of course it did- but not just any signature. He needed _hers_.

“No, uh-” he cleared his throat, desperately trying to keep his voice unnaturally flat. “No Enoshima here. I’ll sign it over to redelivery.”

He started to make his exit.

“Oh, she’ll be here in a minute.” said Komaeda, logically. “It makes more sense for you to wait.” Komaeda had a particular way of talking that set Hinata’s teeth on edge: he tended to pause between phrases to breathe in audibly.

Hinata was already hearing Junko’s voice, that awful, delighted sound and frightening smile. “Sorry, I’m, I’m busy-- I’ll just go sign it over for redelivery later-”

Komaeda ‘hmmed’ to himself- and that was better than trying to get a closer look at Hinata’s face. “You’d be doing a very poor job if you left a minute before she arrives. I despise her and love her, so you can trust in me memorizing when she’ll arrive.”

Hinata remembered exactly this. It was almost like getting a flashback on the spot. This was _exactly_ the Komaeda he’d met a year and a half ago.

There was some awkward silence, where Hinata was supposed to reply rather than staring blankly at the floor.

“It’s funny- I could swear I know you from somewhere.”

Hinata gulped and, in a moment of genius, he whipped around so his back was facing Komaeda and promptly began to pretend to check the address on the bags thoroughly.  

“Nope! Not at all! You’re a model, right?” he began in a desperate hope to distract him, as he considered how each and every letter of the word “JUNKO” made him want to go live in a hut in the wilderness.

“Oh, not a real model of course. Not like everyone else here.”

“Your face seems perfectly...fine, ah-haha-” What was he babbling about? Komaeda wasn’t fine-looking! There was a market for his look, somewhere. The gothic one, perhaps, to whom the idea of looking like death warmed up was appealing. He was all collarbones and straggly hair. It probably felt awful to the touch.

Komaeda laughed, and Hinata wished instantly that he hadn’t been the person to prompt that noise. It was like someone was grating a pot plant in his ear drums.

“Oh, no- nobody wants to look at my awful mess of a face! I’m a foot model.”

If the previous silence had been weird, this one was positively eldritch.

“You’re a foot model,” said Hinata, more a high-pitched question than a statement.

But before anyone could begin to unpack that, three things happened in close succession.

Firstly, Komaeda, apparently having learnt the silent movements of an assassin, stepped over the bag and in one ungodly movement crouched by Hinata, staring right up into his face. It was so much Komaeda in one place. Hinata’s vision became entirely white hair and huge, judgemental grey eyes.

Secondly, a door slammed open with such force that the glass in the “ENOSHIMA STUDIO” window panel cracked and shattered across the floor in a wide arc of damage. A voice called out: “Everyone get ready!”

Thirdly, and perhaps worst of all, Komaeda blinked in recognition. It was almost a moment of rapture. His lips parted in surprise, eyes widened in an expression of unhidden awe.

This is it, Hinata thought. The worst has happened. It’s all over for me.

“Kamukura-kun?” Komaeda whispered.

***

At Junko’s arrival, the camera and light technicians went silent for a moment.

Her eyes met Hinata’s instantly, and it was some wonder of god that Hinata didn’t flinch away as her eyes filled with an absolute sense of maniacal glee.

Her hair was even more vast than he remembered it, pink and towering. Hinata thought he saw the ends of it coil around her, almost dancing in line with her steps.

She was donned in a giant leopard-fur coat and heels the length of a kitchen-knife.  

“Kamukura?” she sung out, with unrestrained delight. She dived towards him. Red claws flashed in Hinata’s eyes. “Izuru! I knew you’d be back!”

“No,”he started, feebly. “It’s not what it looks like, I’m just here to get your signature for-”

The bags he’d been trying to offer her were swept onto the floor like a rabid dog scorning a meant-to-be-placating steak as Junko surged towards him, grabbing his face. “Look at you, back with your short hair and your lovely little bored face-”

Somewhere in the background, Komaeda was tearing up.

“I’m not-”

But Junko was unstoppable, like a creatured fuelled by the drug of her own desire to ruin everyone else’s lives as quick as she could. “Won’t you stay for the shoot? We’ll find things for you! Imagine the excitement- Kamukura, back in the spotlight!”

Hinata kept stepping back, but with each inch he backed off she drew even closer.

From nowhere, she grabbed up a pair of draft magazines and began to flip quickly. “How about- page three- no- front page!” The magazine was thrust into his face. “Pride of place with me, everyone will go crazy to see you back in action! I’ve got some stuff perfect for you back in the studios! What d’ya say?”

Hinata shook his head and somehow without stammering, repeated: “I’ve got to get your signature, then I can leave. I don’t want anything to do with modelling anymore.”

“Boooring! Boo!”

Hinata felt like his entire body was being torn into two. There was a part of him that wanted to scream, and a part of him that yawned and looked back at Junko with big, bored eyes. It terrified him. He thought he’d killed the part of him that felt nothing at all, he thought he’d got over it. Maybe a year was way too short to even begin to recover from someone like Junko.

He wasn’t even thinking anymore. He could hear her talking and taking his face into his hands to examine his angles with her ultra-analytical eyes, chattering about new agents and lighting and his hair- how he’d been an idiot to cut it so short and boring, but could suit it with some makeup.

Komaeda was blinking at him, and before Hinata could hope to stop him, he’d taken his hand between his two thin ones. He was _definitely_ crying. His pale eyes were watery, cheeks flushed. The sensation of Komaeda’s cold, dry hands and the tangible way he was trembling dragged Hinata from his stupor for the briefest of moments.

“To think-” Komaeda shivered- “I’d be lucky enough to see Izuru Kamukura, the god of modelling! I must be the luckiest man alive to see his second grand debut-”

Everything felt so blank.

He realised, in the dream-like way of someone dissociating, that he was no longer feeling anything at all. The part of him that was petrified to have another episode like this was screaming, but it was stuck behind a glass door.

 _You don’t have to feel anything_ , another part of him said. _Emotions don’t matter_ . _Life is boring. You might as well go with her._

Junko was still grinning at him, laughing her inhuman _upupu_ laughter. “Come with me, Izzy. Take off that stupid uniform. You owe me for all the time you wasted not showing up.”

Hinata shook his head fiercely. He wouldn’t give in- couldn’t. He pulled out the electronic signature app, and held it resolutely in front of her. “I need your signature, and then I’m leaving!”

In an instant, her expression turned completely. Her hungry eyes burnt into him, her mouth agape. The way she looked him up and down like prized meat made was all-consuming. She’d wanted her star model back from the second he’d got away. Hinata didn’t take any steps further back, even as her entire presence bloomed around him.

Then, as quick as the look came, she smiled sweetly and stuck her tongue out. She took the phone from his hand, scribbled onto it with a flourish and then handed it back.  “Well, give me a call if you change your mind. You really should- delivery boy is so out of fashion.”

She turned around as quick as a whip and kicked Komaeda’s coke over.

“Koizumi, I see you watching over there. Did I _say_ you could slack?”

A muffled “I’m not!” echoed from the other room. As Junko disappeared into the fray to torment others, the bustle of the studio continued.

Hinata let out the breath he hadn’t meant to hold.

Silence.

“Komaeda?”

“Yes? Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Could you let go of me?”

“Oh! Sorry!” Komaeda gasped. He took a few hasty steps back, promptly lost his footing on the spilled drink and was sent stumbling back until he lost balance completely and was sent sprawling.

There was a muted crunch, followed by a sharp gasp of pain.

Hinata blinked.

There were shards of glass all over the floor, and a few drops of red. Komaeda was sat still, staring at his own foot. On his sole, glass stuck at a jarring angle, as if it were emerging rather than embedded. It was almost comical.

“I’m supposed to be shooting today,” said Komaeda, touching where the blood was dripping. “Oh, this won’t do at all…”

His hand travelled to his head in some subconscious gesture of stress, and Hinata cringed. There was blood in his hair now. It was like seeing blood on snow, or a matted sheep. “Ah, this is just my luck…”

Hinata felt the door drawing him away to the world outside the studio. The part of him that had been trying to learn how to be sympathetic to others stopped him.

“Should I get someone to help?”

Junko, apparently listening, turned around and poised her finger and thumb in a ‘V’ under her chin. “I don’t give a fuck and neither does anyone else! Just get out, you’re both boring me.”

Komaeda visibly seethed as he balled up his fist. “The nerve of her…”

Hinata wasn’t afraid of blood, but the amount of it on the floor from such a relatively small wound didn’t look hopeful. He looked around briefly, as if there would be some easy-to-reach first aid kit on the wall.

Komaeda looked at his expression. “I’ve made someone as wonderful as Kamukura worry about a worthless thing like me… it’s unforgivable.”

“No, that’s not it. Just-”

“Forgive me, I was out of line to even think you were worried.”

Hinata didn’t even try to respond.

“I’ve got awful luck,” Komaeda looked dejectedly at his foot. “I hope this won’t scar.”

He tugged the largest piece out, and blood welled up at the cut almost instantly. “Oh, this won’t do at all… I suppose I’m not going to be very useful today. I’ll call a ride home. Do you need a ride? I’d be honoured to give you all my money.”

“No, don’t do that.” The amount of blood welling out was making Hinata twitchy. “Wait there.”

In a display of defiance he hadn’t thought he had in him, he reached into the abandoned bags that’d been signed for and ripped one open. He pulled stuff out, checking the labels as he went. His mind was trained for recognizing the good brands, and after rifling through cashmere sweaters and bangles, found a white cardigan of some description. It was a nice brand, likely costing more than thirty-thousand yen-- but the least expensive thing he’d found so far.

He tossed it to Komaeda.

“Just bandage yourself, or something.”

Komaeda set about doing his best to staunch the flow, in the process only getting more blood on his hands and wincing when he bumped glass.

Hinata hated himself more than he ever had at any point during the day, because despite already having a hand on the door, he faltered. It was just so pathetic.

Hinata pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look- just call the ride on your phone, I’ll- do it for you.”

“I couldn’t possibly as you to-”

“Stop talking.”

Komaeda fished out his phone from his pocket obediently and began to tap out a number, only glancing down as it went to to dial tone.

Hinata closed his eyes for a second before couching down. He took Komaeda’s leg by his ankle and looked at the damage. There were a few minor shards stuck in the pad of his foot, but the largest was already out and covered in blood on the floor.

He wasn’t a trained doctor - fiddling with this would be more of a mess than leaving it for a professional.

He carefully took the bloodied sweater and wrapped it around the bridge of his foot, careful both to not think whatsoever about who he was touching and not to press hard enough to push any shards deeper in. There was a comfort in being analytical.

“Yes- as soon as possible, if you could- ow!”

“Sorry.”

Komaeda was grimacing, but put on a strained sort of formality as he went on talking. If nothing else, the man had dedication to a cause. As he finished the call and hung up, Hinata tied the makeshift bandage. It was far from perfect, but it would do temporarily.

Komaeda moved his toes experimentally. “Thank you. The car will be here a minute, so you can leave me be.”

Hinata thought about the stairs, and a question surfaced in his mind. It was a question he didn’t want to ask, because asking meant he’d have to deal with the answer. 

“And how are you going to get downstairs?” he said tiredly.

Komaeda gave him an earnest look. “By walking, of course. I wouldn’t dare inconvenience you.”

Hinata groaned.

****

It was a slow and shambling walk to the elevator.

Even being in the same room as Komaeda was too close for comfort, so such close proximity was making Hinata’s skin crawl slightly. Komaeda smelled too much like dust and a prevailingly human sort of scent.

It made the more morbid part of Hinata’s personality laugh, because he’d never been fully sure that Komaeda was human.

When the elevator finally arrived, it offered a brief reprieve from the contact. It was just as glamorous as Hinata remembered it, with a plush red carpet and a vast, almost floodlit mirror that took up the entire wall.

Komaeda didn't say much as he propped himself up, one leg keeping him standing and the other held out awkwardly to balance on the back of his heel.

It gave Hinata the space to look at himself in the mirror; something he didn't always like to do, given who seemed to look back at him. Those same eyes, that same face and same cheekbones - he'd not even changed. Taking a razor to his head had changed him drastically in one way, but he'd have had to be blind to ignore how little it'd changed him in others. He remembered the many ascents he'd made to the studio in this lift in perfect clarity.

He and Junko often stood in the light, flicking their eyes with liner, making sure their hair was right for the image. She liked his purposefully wild and uncut; she sold him on his mystery when she could, and androgny when she couldn't. There was a particular love she found in putting him in suits, because she said the publishers loved the idea of taming the untameable.

It was bad, but it wasn't boring. Sometimes, if he dared to think it- it was almost exciting.

 _Dammit_ , Hinata thought. _I shouldn't be thinking like this._

As if to rescue him, the lift finally hit the bottom floor with a too-cheery ping.

As he went to take Komaeda's arm over his shoulder, Komaeda smiled, raising his hands as if to surrender.

"You don't need to trouble yourself."

"We're almost there anyway."

Komaeda was so light that he could feel his sharp figure resting uncomfortably against him as he hobbled beside him.  

  
As the two of them finally made it out the automatic doors at the front of the building, Hinata looked around and then laughed out loud. It was a hysterical and breathless and reminded him too much of the person next to him.  “Of course. Fucking great. brilliant, that's exactly what I needed.”

“I think I’ve missed the joke,” Komaeda said, patiently.

“Someone’s taken my bike.” 

He looked around the corner in case his bike had just been moved - it hadn't. The dull throbbing at Hinata's temples that'd been threatening him all day was finally emerging as a headache.

“Oh,” said Komaeda. He checked his phone, then smiled ambigously.  The rain was pouring down heavier than before, turning the road into a multi-textured mirror. "Bad luck, I suppose?"

 


	2. Fashionable Restraining Order

“We should be going to the hospital,” said Hinata from the back of the limo.

He couldn’t believe Komaeda had called a limo. The fact that Jabberwock limo service was allegedly the only ready-to-call transport number on his phone was absolutely ridiculous and unnecessary at best. Whatever happened to Uber?

“No, not the hospital,” said Komaeda. “They’ll just diagnose me with something else.”

“Like a foot full of glass?” Hinata said, witheringly.

“Something like that.”

The driver wasn’t exactly pleased when he’d pulled up to two people, one dripping like he’d just stumbled out the shower and the other in shorts and bleeding out. He’d almost stopped them getting in, but something about the way Komaeda spoke seemed to unnerve him somewhat, and he relented on the condition that not a single bit of the upholstery was bloodied.

Komaeda said it wouldn’t be. Komaeda was definitely lying.

Hinata didn’t try to hide how blatantly he was staring at Komaeda’s injury.

Blood was dripping, albeit less dramatically, onto the floor. He was keeping his leg off the white seats to avoid smearing blood further. It seemed a bit of a lost cause. though; he’d already done the damage.

And so continued one of the worst days of Hinata’s life. There was a bright side, though: meeting Junko had been so awful that being somehow coerced into a series of events that landed him in the worst car ride of his life, with the second worst person he’d ever met in his life, seemed almost a relief.

The very worst thing had already happened; everything else might as well follow.

“I’m presuming you’ve got enough first-aid equipment at your house to keep you alive.” he said to Komaeda.

“Oh, I have a few things - I’m very used to accidents.” He said it like it was nothing. “Though, all of them being up a flight of stairs might be a problem.”

It wasn’t fair that Hinata wasn’t an evil person. He wished for an evil bone in his body as he tried hard to get out of the car and leave Komaeda right there. He was hungry after being sick with worry for so long, tired, and emotionally speaking, didn’t even have a word for what was going on.

He held out on saying anything else, just in case a better option- any option - miraculously popped up to save him.

“Will anyone be home to go get it for you?”

“I live by myself, Kamukura-kun.”

By himself? Where exactly could one low-end model be affording to stay entirely alone? Hinata didn’t even want to know.

Komaeda, despite damaging the one part of his body he allegedly needed to go to work, seemed in good spirits. He looked at Hinata with an upbeat expression that Hinata didn’t trust for a second.

“I think all of this is incredibly good luck. If I’d not stepped on that glass, I’d never have got the opportunity to be in this car with you.”

“Hinata. My name is Hinata, and don’t say stuff like that.”

“Hinata, of course. Forgive me. Everyone always tells me I’m disgraceful at making conversation.”

Komaeda slipped an inch of bloody fabric off his foot.  “There’s still a bit of glass in here.”

With the kind of blood-aversion rate you’d seen in a ravenous vampire, Komaeda went to pull it out. Hinata darted forward and seized his wrist. It felt thin in his own hand, like he could snap it if he wanted- he had half a mind to.

“ _Don’t_ ,” he said. “I’m tired, Komaeda. I’m tired and I’m hungry, I’m going to have to invite you round my house and call Mikan because you’re obviously going to be found dead in your house from pulling out glass if I don’t, so please, _do not_ get any more blood in this limo.”

Komaeda was quiet. Hinata couldn’t believe it - it looked like he’d finally got through to him.

“Hinata-kun,” he said. _Right name, good start._ “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you were hungry. I should have asked! Driver, can we get to the nearest drive through?”

“No, Komaeda!” Hinata felt faint. “Do you not understand what I’m trying to say?”

“What am I misunderstanding?”

He said it with such an earnest, serious, confused sound to his voice that it wiped all the fight right out of Hinata. The frustration stayed, but the will to do anything about it slumped into the corner and gave up.

“Just - sit as still as you can and don’t say anything.”

The driver was a stronger man than Hinata could ever hope to be, and didn’t say a word through all of this until it finally calmed down in the back.

“Hama Sushi is a block away. Will that do?” he said.

Komaeda turned to Hinata. “Will Hama Sushi do?”

“You’re _bleeding_ , Komaeda!”

Komaeda smiled innocently. “Of course I’m not! If I were bleeding, I’d be kicked out of this limo.”

***

Hinata balanced two full bags of sushi under his left arm as he supported Komaeda with the other.

Home sweet home.

The second he opened the door, he could hear the high volume of the huge TV in the living room, doubtlessly lit up with Chiaki’s latest shooter.

“Chiaki!” he called. She was sat on the floor, cross-legged and too close to the TV again despite the amount of times he’d tried to persuade her out of it. “Chiaki, could you see if Mikan is free?”

It was pointless. Once Chiaki got into a game, there was nothing he or anyone else could to do snap her out of it. At least she wasn't streaming League; that might have lasted days, minimum.

“Just...” Hinata thought of where to put his house guest, like you might struggle to place a pet dog fresh from a stagnant pond. “Sit here, and don’t get blood on the floor while I get a towel.”

“I’ll do my best.”

While Hinata left, Komaeda sat on the sofa and watched. From what he could tell about video games, which wasn’t an awful lot, she seemed to be winning. It was a first person shooter with an urban map. Chiaki seemed to have a psychic knowledge of where opponents were coming from, sniping them from impossible angles and distances.

Spotting the visitor from the corner of her eye, Chiaki paused her game and looked Komaeda over with a sleepy, slow gaze. “Hinata never has friends over.”

“My name is Nagito Komaeda- it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“I’m Nanami.” She glanced down to Komaeda’s leg. “You’ve been in the wars.”

Komaeda laughed, holding his hands up in mock-surrender. “I wouldn’t want to bother you with such a boring, long story.”

Hinata walked back in at that moment, towel in his arms and an onigiri in his mouth. “It’s not that long. I met Junko and he stepped on glass and that’s about it.”

Chiaki’s eyes welled instantly with concern. “You met Junko?”

“I had to deliver to her studio.” He knew she’d want to know more, even if she wouldn’t judge him for not wanting to go through it again out loud. “I’ll talk about it more later. Can we call Mikan?”

***

 

Tsumiki Mikan was a very special type of person. Come to think of it, every single person Hinata knew came in varying flavours of overwhelming bizarrity, but her rampages of apologies interspersed with crying, contrasted with the vaguely competent persona she took on while taking care of someone was truly something to behold.

At the mention of an injured person in need of help- (‘ _No, he’s not really that injured, he’s just got glass in his foot’_ ) she’d promised to be there as quickly as possible, with emphasis on if she’d be any help at all and not an inconvenience to everyone.

Hinata said she was the best nurse he knew; she started to sniffle almost immediately.

Instructions were given by Mikan for everyone gathered to follow, mostly to do with not pulling any glass out, to which Hinata admitted with a wince that Komaeda had already been there done that got the bloodied sweater.

It was only as she put the phone down that Hinata wondered how exactly she and Komaeda would interact; who would self depreciate themselves into the ground first? Would it keep going until one of them died, blood loss or otherwise? The more he thought about it, the more he almost regretted calling her.

It seemed some god was feeling merciful, because nothing quite so awful had happened. Sure, she’d tripped in the doorway and exposed her underwear to everyone present, but that was standard Mikan fare. It was almost a good omen to get it out of the way early.

As of current, she was sat on the floor, surrounded by a little medical kit, bandages, gauze, and a bowl of water. Komaeda, still sat on the sofa, seemed almost pleased-- god knew what about.

She was holding his ankle firmly but without pressuring it, angling the pad of his foot for a better verdict on what she’d do next.

“Ah, alright- um- before I do any disinfecting do you have any pre-existing medical conditions or allergies?”

“Yes.” said Komaeda. “I’ll write a list for you, it’ll be quicker that way. Just to check, I won’t have to get nude for this, will I?”

Perhaps in semblance of a defense mechanism, Hinata successfully tried to ignore everything said out loud between them after that.

As he was starting to zone out, Chiaki tapped him on the shoulder and motioned for him to come with her to the quieter side of the living room. He was so willing to leave the bloody floor scenario that he would have followed her anywhere.

From where they stood, Hinata could see their kitchen and the random assortment of stuff in it. There was a box of sugary cereal on one counter and a bunch of clean but untidied knives and forks on the other. On one wall there was a dartboard, on which Souda had lampooned a photograph of Tanaka Gundham.

Hinata tried his best to keep the space useable but he was busy these days, and of all the god-given talents he had, cleaning just wasn’t one of them. Despite this, tidying tended to fall on him with those two around: Nanami was a gamer through and through, and Souda claimed his brain just didn’t work in tidy ways. It was funny how his workshop was organized chaos rather than the mess the kitchen was, but Hinata didn't care enough to start a row with his friends.

Souda was a good enough friend as long as you kept him off the topic of Sonia and/or Gundham and made sure he showered after he went hard at a mechanics project.

He’d zoned out again, it seemed. Chiaki looked gently concerned.

“Are you okay, Hajime? You seem off… I guess.”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m just sort of…” He sighed out slowly. There was only one word that described both _how_ he was feeling and why he was feeling it. “Junko.”

Nanami nodded, which he took as an indication for him to go on.

“I had to deliver some stuff to her- clothes, makeup, whatever. I wanted to find someone else to do it, but nobody would - and outside the studio I was just stood there, getting more and more freaked out. I had to go in - someone had to, anyway…”

There was a gasp of pain from Komaeda in the background: Nanami looked, but Hinata didn’t so much as flinch. It was shocking how quickly you could get used to that.

“She arrived a bit after and you can guess how she was. Tried to get me to stick around on set and do a shoot with her.”

“That sounds horrible.”

“It was.”

“Uh - Hinata?” Mikan called, from her place on the floor. “Could, could you please get me another t-towel?”

Komaeda was looking at Hinata with a smile that barely betrayed any worry at the events going on. There was blood- more blood than before, even. It was on Mikan’s carefully gloved hands and on the towel, posing a serious saturation risk.

“Okay, hold on. What happened?”

He was rooting through the kitchen cupboard-- why the fuck was there a copy of _Demon & Devil Classification _ under the sink?- and he heard Chiaki murmur something along the lines of ‘ow, that looks bad’.

He made it back just in time to save the carpet, but Mikan was already at work, hands like magic as she bound up the mess.

Komaeda was looking down with what could only be described as curiosity, with a side dish of pain.

Hinata didn't know why he wasn't more upset. For a model, your body was your most important asset, your entire livelihood. You stayed up at night thinking about your skin and angsted over every minor scar or bruise.

“My blood doesn’t clot well, so this is probably going to last for a little- ahah, sorry.”

“Is there anything else I can do?” Hinata said.

“I wouldn’t dare trouble you for sashimi, but if there’s any left over-”

“Medically.”

Komaeda sighed out, and somehow, the exact tone of the sigh put Hinata on full alert. It was a tone that preceded exactly what sort of response was about to come. “I simply despise myself, I shouldn’t have asked.”

Hinata turned to Mikan. “You’ve got this, right? There’s nothing else I can do? Can I go?”

Komaeda opened his mouth.

Hinata narrowed his eyes. “You’re not seriously expecting me to - what is _wrong_ with you?”

“My hands are bloody, Hinata,” he said, pitifully.

Hinata hated that there was some logic to it; that getting up would be tricky, and getting blood on the rice was an awful idea.

Hinata picked up the sashimi and felt a metaphorical bead of sweat on him as he brought the piece close. Komaeda opened his mouth again willingly. It wasn’t that it was a big mouth; it was just that now Hinata was looking at it there was too much of it. 

He edged the sushi closer. Komaeda was looking at him and opened his mouth up slightly wider, as if aim was the problem.

Hinata was hovering it near. His hand was shaking. Oh god, what if he put it in and his lip touched his hand? He didn't think he'd live.

At that moment, Souda walked in on the tableau set out in front of him. Komaeda, bloody, mouth open, Hinata trembling with a bit of sushi, Mikan also covered in blood, and Chiaki, who’d resumed her game as if nothing was amiss whatsoever.

“What the shit is going on in here?” he said. And then, with a note of disbelief , “why the fuck is _he_ here?”

Hinata fumbled and dropped the sushi onto Komaeda’s face. “You two know each other?”

“Damn right we know each other, he ruined my car!”

It had to be said, Chiaki was not usually the most inquisitive of people, but this caught her attention. “How?”

“I ran him over with it!”

Hinata laughed uncomfortably. “Are you sure he deserves the blame for that…?”

“Yes! He does when he does it three separate times!”

Komaeda laughed. “I’m very unlucky - I’d not dare blame it on your reckless driving.”

“You see! He admits it! Only bad things happen when this guy is around, Hajime- kick him out quick or your house will burn down.”

***

“O-okay!” Said Mikan. “This should be it, um - I think- you shouldn't walk on it much, but you should be alright.”

Komaeda flexed his foot experimentally- it seemed sound. “Thank you! I’m very grateful.”

He looked at her knowingly, then added an appreciative; “You’re a very good nurse. I’d be honoured if someone as good as you looked after me every time I got sent to hospital.”

“No! No, honestly! It’s okay! It’s fine! Oh no, I’m so sorry, I’m apologising too much and annoying you…”

Komaeda stood a shambling step up, balancing on tiptoes, wandered across the room.

He made it to the kitchen, took a glass from the cupboard, opened the fridge and helped himself to orange juice. Hinata followed, unable to think of anything reasonable to say to stop Komaeda thieving his juice.

Komaeda then picked up the copy of _Demon Classification_ that’d abandoned on the worktop. “I’m sorry to have been in your house so long. What’s this?”

“Oh, that?” Hinata felt thoroughly backfooted, and pointed to Gundam’s punctured face, dart still in his forehead. “It’s that guy's. He’s into the occult. Why?”

“What’s he doing in the picture?”

Hinata squinted at the background, in which several candles were lit and arranged.

“Some stupid ceremony to raise a spirit from the underworld.” _Best not to ask_.

In one frightening motion, Komaeda dropped the book, leant back against the counter and stared out from under his hair with a hard gaze. “Why did you kill him?”

“Hey, I didn't throw the darts. It’s Souda's board.”

“Not him. You know who.”

“No?”

“Izuru Kamukura. It’s a waste, you know- to pretend you’re a different person. It’s a waste to fashion.”

Komaeda had already been unnerving, but the look in his eyes was terrifying.

“You’re obsessive - just chill out.”

“You think I come on a little strong? I’m just a bit of a self-confessed fanboy, is all.” He chuckled breathlessly. “I suppose I’ve said too much?”

_Way too much._

“I was just so excited, you understand? You said I was boring last time we met, and beneath you- so you’ve got to understand that you’re my idol, if I dare be so bold. I’m disappointed that you’re not willing to be yourself.”

“I am me. I’ve just had a lot of therapy.”

Komaeda seemed to be more fixated on his own hand than the person he was talking to as he muttered, “I’m so disappointed- or am I? Maybe this is actually… maybe getting you back on the right track is actually very hopeful.”

He glanced up, in the least mentally stable switch of tone Hinata had ever witnessed from a human that wasn’t Junko Enoshima.

“You should be yourself, you know,” he smiled, “people are happier when they aren’t lying.”

“I’m not lying. I-- went to therapy.”

“Intense therapy, was it, Hinata-kun?”

Hinata was being mocked and he couldn’t even tell why, or for what purpose. He might have found it delightful a year ago; right now, he was just sick of it. He was dumbfounded.

“I shouldn’t have to explain myself! I’m- I was bored of living on camera and I was sick of Junko too. So I went and got help, unlike you, who obviously needs it.”

“So, let me get this right,” Komaeda said, humming in thought. “You left because you were bored of it all.”

“I-”

“I’m only repeating what you just said back to you, so I’ve got this right.”

Hinata paused, breathed out hard through his nose. “Yes. I was bored, fine. What has that got to do with anything?”

“You were bored…” Komaeda considered, as if pondering a riddle, or a crossword. “It’s just funny, is all- because to me, you seem even more bored than before.”

“I’m not bored!” He snapped.

Again with Komaeda's expression; that awful look that seemed to know far more than anyone else did. “I must have misunderstood. So you didn’t take me home because a part of you would secretly very much enjoy some entertainment?”

“No!”

“Oh, I suppose cutting my foot up was a waste then.”

“You - you what? You’re a fucking maniac- no, I don’t even want to play this game! To be honest, I really don’t care! Komaeda, I’m sick of this- can you just call a cab and go home?”

“Well, if you really do want me to leave, I won’t sully your presence any longer. I'll see you round, Hinata."

Komaeda picked up his phone and began to scroll through his contacts.

“ _And n_ _ot the limo_!”

 

As Komaeda finally left the premises, Hinata could already feel Souda’s aura, burning to talk. It was radiating from his body, like a spiritual manifestation of a someone who absolutely could not keep his mouth shut a minute longer.

“He’s a fucking fruit-cake,” he gasped. “Are you bonkers? Why did you invite him home?”

“It’s a long story. I really, _really_ didn't mean to."

From outside, Komaeda was waving as he got in the taxi. It was so cheerful. Hinata turned away and shut the door with more force than was necessary. He thought he'd earned it.

"What the fuck, Hajime? He makes me feel like he's got a knife on him all the time, and that he creeps around in sewers as a hobby, he's your actual stalker, he probably -"

“Souda? Souda."

Souda, to his credit, did manage to cut himself off. "Yeah?"

"You don’t think I'm… still Kamukura, right?”

Souda scoffed, then seemed to realise Hinata was being serious. “No way, dude. You actually have at least two emotions now.”

"Okay- um. Good."

"That, and you cut your hair."

Well. If nothing else, you could count on Souda to explain the blindingly obvious. "Thanks, Souda. I feel a lot better."

Souda grinned. "Aw, really? I'm glad to help a friend out."

Hinata sighed, and then stalked back through to the living room.

Chiaki was still playing her game, head facing the TV. She'd obviously turned the volume up, because the whole room felt like it was shaking. "Want to hang out later?"

"I- um. Yeah."

He was completely different, wasn't he? It just wasn't fair, that the only interaction he ever got with other models was traumatising and left him doubting himself. And 'see you soon, Hinata-' what the hell did that mean? He'd never felt so threatened by such a menial goodbye in his life. Even if their support did make him feel a little bit better, his friends probably couldn't save him from his own crisis.

Hinata was beginning to realise that his horrific Monday was starting to look a whole lot like a horrific foreseeable future.


	3. When in Doubt, Wear the Thing You Started with Two Hours Ago

Hinata was hungry. After a considerably frantic morning pedalling around the city, he was glad to clock out and head to the nearest cafe. Luckily, the depot was near the middle of the busiest ward, so there were plenty of places to get lunch. Jabberwock Park was a bit far to go, but it was always nice to go to if he had the time.

It’d been a bit of a strenuous Wednesday but it was nothing he couldn’t handle. At least thinking about Ibuki’s gig on Friday was keeping him motivated.

That, or, making work more tolerable when he considered what he might be in for come the night.

Ibuki’s gigs were always memorable if nothing else, because you couldn’t burn death metal out of your memories and your eardrums took a whole week to recover.

But, on taking one step out the door, he realised lunch was going to be far from peaceful.

Waiting outside, sat on a bench surrounded by pink flowers and ferns, was Komaeda.

Hinata acted on his first impulse and began to run. Then, the part of him that liked to wear suits and ties and glare into cameras said _fuck it._ Running would prove he cared, which he did, because he really didn’t want to have to talk to Komaeda, but he didn’t want to _look_ like he cared.

There was a part of him that thought Komaeda might be some form of pale vulture, that would only be encouraged by the smell of fear on someone.

The two parts of him had a brief, inelegant scuffle for dominance, resulting in a pathetic half jog. He turned around as he made his escape.

Komaeda was wearing a dark leather jacket, worn out slightly by the sun. The shirt under it was striped in brick red and navy blue, low cut and exposing his blade-like shoulder bones. His dark jeans had rips in the knees that exposed the glaringly pale skin under it.

He was steadily walking towards him, clutching at two plastic drink cups. The contents of those looked suspicious at best; a sort of, off-white, marbled colour.

Hinata stopped running.

“What are you doing here?” Hinata said. “I told you I don’t want to talk to you. Or see you.”

“Well, I knew when your lunch break would be, so I thought I’d come to say hello. We could go and eat together.”

He extended one cup towards Hinata. Hinata did not take it.

“I thought if we went and sat away from the road, nothing dangerous could happen to us.”

“You’re dangerous by yourself.”

Komaeda didn’t look too hurt, but did look reflective for a second. “You’re right. Anything could go wrong. We could get hit by a falling object, or we could fall down a drain…” He shivered. “Well, I already made us milkshakes, and I was hit by a car on the way, so nothing bad should happen for at least an hour.”

“No, no, and no. Listen, Komaeda-" he struggled for words, barely avoiding calling him a horrible person- "We're not friends." /span>

“This nice drink will go to waste. I’m just really sorry that we got off on the wrong foot.”

The pun made Hinata consider suicide. The only way he could continue living was wiping from his memory on the spot.

“You’re not even sorry, you’re such a liar.”

“No I’m not. True, I’m not sorry at all about what I’ve done, but I’m sorry that we can’t get along. I just think that we’re more alike than you know. Someone filthy like me wouldn’t dare to think we could be friends, only that- perhaps- we could…”

Hinata took the milkshake more out of pity than anything and started to walk.

“Whatever.”

As they walked, Hinata didn’t hide his attempt to examine the milkshake from the outside. The concoction looked absolutely diabolical. He had seen healthier fluids drip out of the human body than he’d seen in the cheery plastic cup.

“I’m so grateful that you’d decide to hang out with someone like me.”

 _Decide?_ Hinata didn’t see any element of choice in what happened to him. What was keeping him going was a sense of absolute nihilism, and a voice that didn’t mind what happened as long as it was unexpected.

“Well.”

“Are you going to have your drink?”

He thought there was an off-chance it was poisoned. If Chiaki had done this- and she could be so absent that he didn’t doubt it _could_ happen- he’d have given her the benefit of the doubt. He spared Komaeda none of the same courtesy. Besides- he couldn’t help but notice Komaeda himself hadn’t taken a single sip.

The substance was coagulating in the straw.

“I don’t think milkshake is supposed to look like this.”

“Huh… I really thought I’d done well,” Komaeda sighed. “Well, I suppose it makes sense- my cooking abilities are completely useless, anyway.”

Hinata sniffed at the straw, then wished he hadn’t. He took Komaeda’s cup from him and dumped both of them in the nearest bin.

  


The cafe Hinata went for was his pick because it usually had customers to blend in with, but it was never saturated. He didn’t feel bad about taking a whole table to himself there. It was as far as you could get from the Hanamura restaurant, which he was eternally grateful for. The place had food like nowhere else, but you had to make sure to book in advance - that, and avoid bringing anyone attractive less Teruteru was around.

Hinata sat at a little table outside, while Komaeda went to order for the two of them. He was paying for everything, which would be a semblance of a reason to keep him around if it didn’t make Hinata feel so uncomfortably in debt.

On his return, he left the paper bag of sandwiches and snacks on one side of the table before pulling out the chair opposite.  Hinata wasn’t feeling as excited for lunch as he had been while he was at work.

To his amazement, Komaeda began to chatter.

“Work has been so under fire recently. Naegi from worker’s rights keeps trying to come in, because they’re all obsessed with Junko’s models being worked to the bone.”

“Are they?”

“Oh, yes, definitely. He’s doing wonderful work, I really admire him and hope he gets me fired.”

“Great.”

Hinata really didn’t need to ask how much of a slave driver Junko was. He was exempt from some of it back in the day, presumably because he was her favourite, but even he wasn’t given a break.

“I hope he manages to shut us down, because as you know very well, Junko deserves to be jailed.”

“It’s funny,” Hinata said, leaning on his elbow, “I didn’t think you were the type to bitch.”

“This isn’t bitching,” Komaeda said, earnestly.  “This just just a friendly chat about work. I hope I’m not making you feel unwelcome with my mean spiritedness.”

Somehow, against all odds and all probabilities, the smile Komaeda threw him struck him as genuinely friendly. Maybe he was sick.

Hinata took a bite out of his sandwich. “Why are you even at work though? Isn’t your foot kinda…”

“I have two feet, Hinata.”

Hinata blinked. “I wasn’t born yesterday, Komaeda. I’m- _was,_ a model. You can’t have pictures taken of shoes and jewellery with one foot. Are you even a model, or was that just you fucking with me?

Komaeda was one of those people who were selectively deaf. “Could you pass me the bread?”

“The bread?” Hinata repeated, blankly. Every time he had a conversation with this human disaster, he felt like he was being batted about from topic to topic, ignored when what he said was inconvenient and grilled for information when he didn’t want to talk. “That’s a really weird way to ask me to give you the food.”

Komaeda gripped his hair. “I mean the- the… it’s on the tip of my tongue.”

Hinata looked even more blank. “The sandwich?”

As if some internal malfunction had been fixed, Komaeda sighed in relief. “Yes, that.”

On receiving the sandwich, he took a single, neat bite. And then, he leant down and unlaced his boot.

“What are you doing? Hey, wait- don’t do that in public!”

People on near tables were definitely watching - Hinata glanced around in horror.

“I’m only giving you some evidence, Hinata. I understand why you wouldn't believe I’m a model, so I’ll prove it.”

“Don’t!”

On undoing both his black combat boots, he pulled off two socks and got out his bare feet. They were even paler than the rest of him, femininely thin and elegant. One had several pink plasters on it.

Hinata had to give it to him. He hated to, but he had the cursed fashion eye with him forever. Without the blood and glass, they were good feet.

“Okay, I believe you- now put them away?”

Komaeda flexed his toes, and then reached into his pocket, pulling out a small piece of chalk. He put his foot flat on the floor. “I’ll show you the ideal shape.”

There was nothing that could make this worse, Hinata thought. There was nothing else Komaeda could possibly say about his career arc that could make him feel any less like he was having a fever dream.

“For women’s, anyway,” he said, tracing the outline of his toes like you would a body at a crime scene. “I only really do high heels, jewellery and sandals anyway.”

There was someone walking on the sidewalk towards their table. He was in a dark jacket, with a plum scarf and one particularly gaudy earring.

Hinata had never been so grateful to see another person on his life. “Gundham! Hey!”

He wished he wasn’t hanging out with Komaeda. There was no way Gundham knew who he was, but it was still bad.

“Ah, Hajime- I thought I might find you in this realm.” said Gundham. He looked down at whatever was going on the floor, but Hinata was quick to distract his attention.

“Yeah, lunch yesterday was fun- so, uh- what are you up to?”

Gundham smiled his otherworldly smile. “A mere mortal couldn’t comprehend it. In order to save this fragile world, I, Tanaka Gundham, am descending through the seven unholy rings of the demon king, past the infernal hellbeasts in order to make a holy unity with the light ruler.”

“You’re going on a date with Sonia, then?”

Gundham flushed behind his scarf.

Komaeda, a demon in his own right that Hinata wouldn’t mind seeing Gundham obliterate, smiled, having succeeded in putting his shoes back on.

A flash of recognition sparked on Komaeda’s face. “Ah! You must be the guy from the photograph.”

“What effigy do you speak of?”

“In Kamukura’s kitchen, there’s a darts board with-”

“Aand, that’s enough!” Hinata interjected, loudly as possible. “The picture of us in the living room, having a good time without a trace of collateral damage, thank-you Nagito.”

The dart board was a new addition, which Hinata really did intend to remove as quickly as he could be bothered. Gundham obviously hadn’t paid attention to that, though- his eyes were wide as he gasped at Komaeda, hand open as if trying to grasp an invisible powersource.

“You dare speak the cursed name?”

Komaeda smiled and laughed innocently.

Hinata had wanted Gundham to save him, but as it was playing out, it looked like he’d have to save Gundham. Maybe a simple exorcism wasn’t enough to combat Komaeda.

“For someone to speak that word so freely… there can be no other reasoning. You two must also be creating a powerful bond.”

“No!” Hinata interjected. “No, absolutely not.”

“We’re not?” said Komaeda, softly.

“No! He means are we- no, Gundham. We aren’t.”

Gundham looked very much like he was deep in thought. The head of a dark deva was peering out of his scarf. Then, he laughed loudly.

“Time runs out in this realm. It's been a pleasure meeting someone like you, but I have to ascend.”

“Yeah, wouldn’t want to be late for Sonia - see you on Friday?”

Gundham considered this too, before laughing under his breath. "We shall see, mortal."

 

***

The Titty Typhoon was bustling. There was something to be said for a place that had the audacity to call itself Titty Typhoon, and everything about the interior could be summed up with the title.

The venue was heaving, hot as a greenhouse, and by the end of the night had an invariably sticky floor. The lights were dim but colourful, and standing too close to the speakers felt like dancing through an earthquake. The opening act was up, some local idol band with catchy tunes, and the dancefloor was already full of gig-goers.

With Gundham’s latest cryptic text to the group chat being roughly translatable to ‘Sonia and I are still doing makeup, go in without us’ , it was Hinata, Chiaki, Mikan and Souda who’d managed to get one of the last tables on the outskirts of the bar. Apparently Nidai and Akane were going to turn up later, but only if they finished their latest round of fights.

Souda was out of his overalls for once, opting for an equally eye-burning neon green shirt. Chaiki had dressed up too in one of her rare going-out skirts, but Hinata, with far too many clothes stashed, had experienced serious outfit deliberation that evening.

What he _should_ have done was just wear the first thing he found. That would have been the sensible, and least Izuru Kamukura option, but an hour later he found himself on facebook, scouting out what Ibuki was likely to be wearing, and thus, the rest of the crowd.

White shirts were too formal even with a nice plaid pattern so that was out, chokers hadn’t been his game for years, eyeliner was so far out it might as well be in international waters. Ibuki was punk, so some kind of studs weren’t out- but big black bracelets were so early two thousands that he might as well have worn a denim jacket and a tank top. He’d been given one of Ibuki’s tour shirt, but it might have come across a little overly eager to wear that.

Chiaki had knocked on his door and asked if he was having a fashion moment, to which he admitted guilty on all charges.

“Just don’t think about it,” she advised, after some thought. “It doesn’t really matter.”

And she was right. What he’d ended up going with was ripped jeans in black, the tour tee he’d shunned, overlayed by the white shirt he’d rejected in the first place undone over the top of it.

And so all of them found their way to the Titty Typhoon without further crisis, where conversation was being relayed via yelling it over the entire table.

Souda, in the far distance, was jostling for a place at the swamped bar for more rum and coke, equipped with Kamukura’s card.

“I forgot to tell you something!” said Chiaki.

Hinata cupped his hands. “Say it louder!”

“I’ve got some good news!”

“What is it?”

“Nagito is coming to see Ibuki too!”

Hinata balked, heart leaping into his arteries. “Are you joking? _Why_?”

“Well- I asked him!”

“It was just really nice that you had a friend round,” Chiaki leant in to the middle of the table, so she could talk slightly more quietly. Given the location, slightly more quietly meant still fairly loud, but it was contextual. “because mostly it’s just me and you and Souda. He seems nice, and I felt sorry for him. And he’s a model too… I guess.”

Hinata loved Chiaki to pieces, but he had to feel the miscommunication between them had reached a point of critical mass. He somehow didn’t doubt that Komaeda, in the brief period he talked to her, had managed to both claim he was his friend and convince her that he was an upstanding individual. It was a shocking talent of his; in the first say, two times you met him, you could almost believe he was normal. It was like he saved his crazy up in order to horrify you better later.

Mikan mumbled something that looked like it might be in Komaeda’s defense, but it was far too quiet for anyone to hear.

“He’s not nice, Chiaki- he’s sort of a maniac.”

Chiaki hummed in thought.

“Well- I already asked, and he said yes.”

“Okay, then call him and say he can’t come.”

“It’s a public music gig. I can’t stop him… probably!”

 

It was then that Souda, who had already overdone it slightly at pre drinks because he ‘couldn’t face seeing Sonia and Gundham together if he wasn’t wasted’, tapped/hit Hinata on the shoulder for him to lean back while he clattered an entire tray of drinks onto the table.

“Absinthe time!” he grinned.

“Wow,” said Chiaki.

Mikan looked positively terrified.

While the prior requested cups of rum and coke were present, there was also a fishbowl of blue lagoon and a whole round of suspiciously coloured shots.

“We’re doing absinthe shots?” Hinata said, taking his coke.

“Damn right we are! Coke mixer, if you’re a chicken.”

“Souda, you’re already halfway gone. You’re going to die.”

“No I won’t, don’t be so boring!”

Hinata frowned. It wasn’t boring to not drink liquid death. He wanted to be able to wake up in the morning and not wish he were dead, thank you very much. Surely, Chiaki, as a sensible, level-headed friend, wouldn’t agree with - he turned around, and she was necking it.

Looking back, this might have been the point where he knew the night was going to be interesting. It certainly it wasn’t the turning point for the worse, as that came slightly later, but the first taste of absinthe was definitely the prologue to the latest in a sequel of novels about Hinata, titled “My Life, And How Exactly It Went Preventably Wrong”.

Chiaki spluttered predictably but put up her thumb in a big thumbs up. “You next!”

Hinata thought if Komaeda was coming, he might as well numb himself for an overhead spotlight inevitably falling on him, or getting unluckily hit by a thrown bottle. Besides, all the things he’d heard about absynthe were probably rumours at best; he was already a few down in terms of rum, so it would barely make a difference.

He took the first shot, and didn’t even gag. His mentality had changed for sure, but very little could stop Kamukura’s iron constitution.

As he looked into his glass, he felt Chiaki tap his shoulder and pointing towards the crowd. Hinata looked up and squinted.

Somebody was walking towards their table. He didn’t know who it was to start with, because he wasn’t expecting to see what he was seeing.

The person was tall in leather high heel boots and a flowing black sleeveless garment that was neither a dress or a shirt. From a belt securing the middle, two silver chains hung in tandem, each with a human skull that rested over his upper thighs. He was wearing some kind of choker collar.

Briefly, Hinata’s brain wouldn’t process it. It was impossible.

If the bright white hair had been even a fraction tidier, Hinata wouldn’t have recognized Komaeda at all.

To Hinata’s absolute fear and amazement as the man drew closer, he realised he’d drawn his eyebrows in. That a little bit of definition and shadow over his eyes made Komaeda look like entirely different person.

“Hello!” Komaeda said, cheerily (and loudly, given the filler-music between the idols and Ibuki). “I’m so sorry I’m late- it’s so busy in here and I couldn’t find you, so I just picked a random direction and came here!”

Souda was completely dumbstruck. Mikan was blushing so hard she might turn red. Chiaki, who wouldn’t be phased if the world ended, said hello as if nothing was amiss.

Komeda pulled a chair from the side and sat down at the table.

Up close, Hinata could see the choker had the word ‘hope’ on it. Without thinking, he downed the rest of his rum and coke.

He looked at the pale line of Komaeda’s neck, visible from how low his dress- shirt? hung over his shoulders and- oh, good lord, it was backless - and the profile of his face. How the mascara took his eyelashes from pale and strange to defined and long was a miracle. It was so unreal that he couldn’t stop himself staring. You would think someone with a build like that wouldn’t keep wearing things so low cut, but...  Komaeda was sitting there. Like that. Completely unabashed.

“Hold the _fuck_ on, squad!” said Souda. “Why’s he here? Who invited him? And why is he dressed like that?”

“Ibuki Mioda is into punk, is she not?” Komaeda beamed. “I’m just getting into the spirit of it.”

Hinata thought of her more as a death metal punk combo, but he’d let it slide.

“Fair,” Souda said. He pushed a drink across the table to Komaeda.

That was resolved far quicker than anyone else anticipated. Almost too quickly. It was suspicious as sin.

Hinata squinted at Souda. “Are you alright?”

Souda, in means of an answer, wobbled visibly. Well, that was great.

“Do you want some fresh air or something?”

Souda waved him off, smiling giddily. “I’m feeling a-m-a-zing.”

There was a roar from the stage and audience, signifying the end of the first set, soon to be followed by the intermission of popular hits and then Ibuki.

Chiaki waved suddenly, standing up to catch someone on the other side of the bar’s attention. “Oh- there’s Gundham. Over here!”

Souda retreated under his hat. “I’ve changed my mind Hajime, I’m a mess, I can’t go, what if Sonia laughs at me? I can’t look!”

It had to be said, Gundham and Sonia had put in an outstanding punk effort. While Gundham didn’t need to change his attire too thoroughly to make it work, seeing Sonia in all black with combat boots was a sight and a half. They were both darkly lidded, having apparently shared an eyeliner pen.

It was too late to distract Souda from the inevitable; they were definitely holding hands.

“You’ll be fine,” Hinata coaxed, to a franic Souda, “come on.”

As he pulled his chair out to escape towards the others, he turned around and had a charitable thought.

“Komaeda!” he said. “You want to come?”

Komaeda shook his head, catching the light on his clip on earrings. “A light will just fall on us or the bar will burn down if I go, I’m fine here!”

“You sure?”

“I’ll come in a minute!”

“Suit yourself.”

Hinata left Komaeda behind as he stood, then looked at the table. He wasn’t feeling particularly different. Maybe Titty Typhoon had finally hit rock bottom and started watering the drinks. He took another shot of Absinthe for good measure, poured that and his third into his rum cup, and then picked up the entire glass to take with him to meet the late arrivals.

It was not strictly the first absinthe shot that doomed the night. What really did it was the three of them, dumped into the rum and coke.

As he pushed his way to the edge of the sweaty dance floor to meet with Sonia and Gundham, Chiaki and Mikan came in tow.

With an almighty scream of electric guitar that deafened the entire room, Ibuki Mioda took to the stage. She was pierced, dyed, buckled and belted- every fashion statement that could be used to signify joyful death metal was on her at once.

She thrummed an almighty test-up on her instrument, to an anticipatory cheer from the dancefloor.

“Are you ready?”

The crowd cheered louder. Hinata thought they might be less ready once the first song was over, but didn’t have time to linger on his own lack of enthusiasm as his hands were pulled up by Chiaki and Sonia into a cheer and wave.

“This one is called ‘ _Love Isn’t Real and We All Want to Die_ ’! Let’s _go_!”

With a dim of the lights, a low chord that chilled his spine, the first song- and the screaming- began.

The crowd was alight with noise and sound and too many sweaty people jumping up and down.

Hinata was finding himself becoming less and less able to keep track of what was going on. His mind felt loose,and the world was vivid and exciting- suddenly he realised that he was cheering with Mikan, who’d apparently lost her mind when the guitar screeched into a wailing solo.

Gundham, looking less willing by the second to partake in this particular dark art, was jostled around while Sonia screamed and waved her hand in a rock sign. Chiaki looked almost lively as she rocked out. The lights span maniacally, one huge spotlight on Ibuki and a bunch of brightly coloured others whirling like a broken lighthouse over the crowd.

Finally, the intermission struck- and a relative lull fell over the crowd while Ibuki tuned up for the next half, chugging an energy drink.

Through an opening in the crowd, Hinata spotted Komaeda. He didn’t seem to be having much fun. Hinata- as waning as his focus was, and it was considerably- noticed he was looking a little bit on the sad side, alone at the table.

With charity befitting only a tipsy person, Hinata snuck away from the group, pushing his way past far too many bodies towards him.

“‘Sup?” he said, with dignity. “You look a bit… down.”

“Oh, don’t worry about me. I just don’t like noisy places much.”

“Then why did you come to a rock gig?”

“I thought she was more punk cross death metal, really.”

For some reason, Hinata’s focus was being filled with Komaeda’s face. He wasn’t bad looking, now he looked closer- sort of ghostly, with big pale eyes and sharp features. It was horrible to admit, but it was true. Hinata kept trailing to look at the choker.

For a single moment, Hinata felt the taste of what seeing a mauled skeleton outside a cave you were about to walk into might taste like, if that essence was distilled into a liquid and two drops of it were used in a cake. It was a faint flavour of something that he couldn’t quite place; a subtle taste of apprehension.

It was a slow sort of realisation, that he didn’t have some kind of tunnel vision and was actually quite a bit closer to Komaeda than he thought. He glanced blearily to the group in the crowd and could see them vaguely having a good time. Sonia had some kind of spirit, Chiaki was definitely deeply into the alcopops. He could probably keep looking at Komaeda without any consequences.

Wait- what were they looking at? They were all calling something to the stage. He followed their gaze, then swore loudly.

“Hold on Komaeda, I’ve got to go- Souda! What is _wrong_ with you?!”

Pushing through the crowd was a disaster and a half, wrestling for space a nightmare. Souda was stood up on the stage, clinging on to Ibuki’s abandoned mic.

“Gundham, what the fuck is he doing?”

“Even the Demon King has no such, uh- knowledge.”

Souda was tearing up disastrously, the picture of a mess but not of the hot variety. Everyone was looking at him, and some were laughing.

Chiaki was somehow playing her DS in the crowd, but did glance up to offer a disappointed sounding “oh”.

Mikan was hiding behind her arm, as if not seeing what was going on on the stage made it not real.

“Sonia!” Souda half-wailed, half yelled. “Please stop dating him! I love you but I’ve never admitted it!”

“Is someone going to stop him?”

“Probably not.”

Someone in the crowd booed.

Gundham looked affronted as Hinata caught a glimpse of security making their way to the stage.

“I know, Souda!” called out a voice. It was Sonia. “I would rather be friends!”

Souda froze in shock.There was a brief scuffle as he was snatched by Nidai and manhandled off the stage with a whole lot of wailing, followed by a cheer and round of applause as he was finally taken away from the spotlight.

As Ibuki climbed back on stage, it was obvious she found it funnier than an annoyance. Security were trying to kick Souda out, and Chiaki was heading to trying to defend him- sort of.

On glancing round, Komaeda was right there behind Hinata.

“Wanna go for a smoke?” he said. “Naturally, only if you’d want someone like me to come with you to _-”_

One look at the unfolding group drama was enough to decide for him. “Oh don’t start that, let’s go.”

Komaeda nodded his affirmative.

It was one of those times where you don’t realise quite what you’ve done to yourself until you stand still, and it was on walking in a straight line that Hinata began to notice the magnitude of what he’d done.

“Are you feeling alright, Hinata-kun?” Komaeda said politely.

“Yeah, amazing, actually.”

Apparently a wiser man than he’d given him credit for, Komaeda stayed close in front as a kind of buffer as the two of them stumbled through the crowd.

The break into the cool outside air was a relief in Hinata’s lungs.

The outside of the Typhoon was thrumming. It wasn’t exactly a smoking area as much as the parking lot sectioned off by bins and a bit of tape, but he’d take what he could get at that point.

From the corner of his eye, Hinata spotted Sonia and Gundham sneaking away from the entrance, looking suspicious as sin. He faintly wondered where they were going, but didn’t linger on it.

Komaeda reached into his pocket and fished out a lighter and a pack.

“Y’know,” said Hinata, leaning against the wall. He thought it might look a little more suave, rather than the act of seeking balance that it was. “I didn’t think you actually smoked.”

Komaeda looked at him with his dark lashed eyes. “I’ve not got much to lose.”

When he turned slightly to cup his hand against the wind while he lit up, Hinata, who’d briefly forgotten just how backless Komaeda’s shirt was, was treated to a visceral reminder.

“I cannot believe how well you clean up.” Hinata said, before he could stop himself.

“Me?” Komaeda took the first drag. “You’ll make me blush, I look just as awful as usual.”

“Cut it out- maybe fuck feet, you know?”

“Fuck feet?” said Komaeda, timidly. “That feels a bit extreme. Unless you really want, then I’m happy to-”

“No, don’t put that in my mouth. I mean fuck being a foot model, just be an actual one.”

He wasn’t just good looking- he was- he was… he was something.

“I couldn’t make it as a proper model.” Komaeda offered first a cigarette, then leaned close to light it for Hinata.

“I was famous. I’ll find a way to get you in.”

"You never gave me your autograph," said Komaeda.  
Hinata shrugged. "You can have it now, if you want."

Komaeda stayed close, despite Hinata’s cigarette already being lit. He was so close that Hinata could just about recognise his smell; that slightly old-book, dusty smell.

He breathed out shallowly, so the smoke curled around his hair. His tone came low but purposeful, perfectly knowing. His eyelashes fluttered. “So what bit of me are you going to sign?”

Hinata, despite everything, laughed out loud. “I really didn’t expect you to be funny.”

“Me?” Komaeda seemed pleased. “You’re crushing my dreams, Hinata-kun.”

“Somehow, I think you'll live.”

“You’re probably right,” Komaeda smiled, “for the next week, at least.”

Hinata leaned in closer. “As long as you don’t end up back in the Typhoon.”

“Yes, well,” A quieter, more conspiratorial tone crossed Komaeda’s voice, as if he was telling some deep secret.”I thought both of us were need in rescuing from the noise and Souda.”

With how close they were, Hinata could barely stop himself from reaching out for the hope collar to get a better look. Komaeda let him too, that was the worst bit- he just leaned in close, like a patient show dog. What didn’t escape Hinata’s attention was the way he looked back at him, dead in the eyes fearless.

 _What the fuck am I doing,_ he thought weakly. The initial disgust at being so close to Komaeda was suddenly a sharp feeling- it was risky, and new, and so, so wrong. What was that hammering in his chest? Was he… excited?

 _Excitement_ , Kamukura whispered, _is the furthest thing from boredom._

There was a moment of anticipatory silence, inches from each other- and then they were kissing.

It was wrong and right and dreadful at the same time, passionate if you could call such a mess passionate - his hands were trailing across Komaeda’s bare back; his lips were cold against his own. Komaeda almost felt like he was shuddering or something, and it took a minute for Hinata to realise he was laughing.

He broke away for a second, smiling brightly. “Hinata- are you sure you want to be doing that?”

A moment of coherency, and Hinata was blinking. “Oh, god, you’re so sober-”

“Me?” Komaeda didn’t move an inch, still so close to Hinata that he could feel his tepid body warmth and the tickle of his hair against his forehead. “Don’t worry.”

Komaeda felt so real in that moment, like he was living in a reality doubled on top of itself. All decision making abilities went out the window as they kissed again- something like fear and subsequent excitement darted up at how frail Komaeda felt against him.

“Let’s go somewhere,” Hinata said, breathlessly.

Komaeda threw the smoking end in the bin and followed without hesitation, gripping Hinata’s hand back when he reached out for him.

It was only a street away, but the trip to Jabberwock park was a blurry memory at best.

They were up against some park bench, kissing hard and fast, and Hinata’s world was fast becoming entirely Nagito Komaeda as he tugged him onto his lap.

Komaeda’s thin, sharp hand dug into his shoulder. Fear sprung up in him like a flame on a match when he felt how assertive Komaeda was being. He opened his mouth just slightly, and Komaeda was unapologetically rough against him, crushing their lips together.

Sirens droned in the distance. Hinata’s hands fumbled, chasing down Komaeda’s waist.

“Gently,” said Komaeda, in a tone of voice that set his entire spine on edge. “You’re pretty new to this, aren't you?”

Hinata hadn’t been expecting things to go so far but suddenly he didn’t see any option but to carry on. He didn’t want to find a different option; he was breathing hard between kissing, face slightly flushed. He fumbled for a zip- _why_ did Komaeda’s trousers have no zip?

“I didn’t know you’d done this before…”

Komaeda pinned him with a merciless look. “First time.”

For approximately one second, Hinata was briefly sober enough and not Kamukura enough to think _what the actual fuck is going on right now,_ but the illusion of sobriety was shattered by Gundham and Sonia tiptoeing out of a bush right next to them.

Both pairs gasped audibly.

“Oh no! We’ve been caught!” said Sonia, loudly.

“I mean-- um- we’re not doing anything either, so like…!”  Hinata blundered.

“We’re sort of busy,” Komaeda finished.

Both Gundham and Sonia were dishevelled and reeling.

Three of the four were flushing sheepishly, save for Komaeda, who was leant over Hinata with unashamed lanquidity. Even a pathetic sort of shifting of weight from Hinata didn’t move him from his spot.

Gundham especially seemed to be taking the turn of events quite badly. “W-we’re returning to hell, so, if- if you can make that perilous journey after…”

“We’ll see you soon!” Sonia finished. “Good luck with - this.”

Gundham nodded shakily. "Yes- demons, return to your ceremony."

In the manner of two groups of people caught doing things they would both never want repeated, they fled as quickly as possible.

Hinata relaxed slightly, but the drunk enjoyment of the moment had been distinctly shattered. He looked up at Komaeda, who was watching them leave with what might have been annoyance.

“Maybe this was a really bad idea…” Hinata admitted. “I feel weird.”

Komaeda hummed impatiently, then stood and shimmied his trousers up. “Well, I’d feel nauseous and afraid at the idea of touching me too, so that’s fine. I must have misunderstood.”

“No, can you just stop with that? I’m… I think it’s the absinthe…” A part of him was absolutely shrieking the house down, telling him he’d not only wake up and regret what he’d been about to do, but that he’d be utterly unable to face anyone else again, let alone himself.

Before he could chase his own misery and dawning shame any further, the sound of the fire truck siren that’d been droning in the distance became deafening as it drove past at top speed. Hinata leant over the back of the bench to look. He suddenly had a very bad feeling.

“Where is that going?”

“Think we should go have a look?” Komaeda said, cheerily.

 

The two of them didn’t need to walk (or stumble) half the block before they saw the flames. 

"You've got to be kidding..." Hinata said.

The Titty Typhoon was one huge bonfire. Fire blazed metres into the air through the roof, tainting the entire sky a sickly orange. The crowd in the parking lot watched on, as if nobody could believe it. Two fire trucks were blasting water at the inferno while security stopped anyone from trying to get near. The final stragglers from the inside were ushered out by a fireman, coughing from the smoke.

The air was hot, and smelled like burnt plastic and wood. Through all of it, the wail of sirens continued in the distance as a third emergency vehicle arrived on the scene.

“Well,” said Komaeda, hands on hips. “That’s about right.”

Then Hinata threw up on the tarmac.

 

 

 


End file.
